


In Arcadia Ego

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 3-23, M/M, Maybe a tiny bit, No Smut, my take on what might happen during the hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on what might happen after 3-23 - I needed to write to process the debacle of 3-23, the loss of the library, the danger and the sadness for our boys -  I needed to write this because I haven't written a word in over 2 months and I was a bit discombobulated after the ending of 3-23.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very little smut - a tiny bit towards the end - more of an exploration of our boy's new life apart from each other and the events that might follow 3-23
> 
> Nothing belongs to me except my overheated imagination
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As usual, these stories write themselves... the boys will decide where it goes.

The noise, as students file out of the large auditorium, is almost deafening. Yet, Professor Horatio Fibonacci already has his nose firmly planted in a book as he signals with one hand for the youths to try and be calmer. “Please keep it down ladies and gentlemen, you’re not chattel at the trough” he says in his exasperated, reedy Boston-accented voice. “Yes, sir”, “Thanks Professor”, “See you next week” is heard in a cacophony of youthful voices. He watches them benevolently and then closes his book, slowly stands up, picks up his cane and motions to his large brown dog who has been lounging underneath his desk since class began as they both make their way out of the classroom, the dog always close at heel.

As he comes out of the building with a large pile of essays precariously held under one arm, the unforgiving California sun,shining mercilessly, makes him wince. Sighing audibly, he squints, places a hand over his eyes and slowly crosses the street to the parking lot, where he opens the door to a battered old European lime green car, lets the dog in, sits down and yet, does not do anything else.

He’s been there for ten months as professor emeritus of computer sciences after having been enticed from one of Boston’s foremost Ivy League universities (or so says the rumor surrounding him). And even if his accent and his reputation did not mark him for a university professor, his threadbare corduroy jacket, khaki pants and colorful bow ties could not lie.

His hand trembles a bit as he puts the key in the ignition and again, he sighs as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. And in a way he does. He wants to let his head fall and rest on the steering wheel but he doesn’t do it – there are many people milling about and if he is honest, he couldn’t bear having to reassure anyone about his state of being.

They say grief and mourning abate with time but the wound, almost a full year later, is still as fresh as on the first day. And of course, he keeps metaphorically picking at the scab, reminding himself of what was, of what he lost, of what was taken away from him. Again he feels a bit nauseated, as if a heavy weight had been set on his chest on that dreadful day and, reminding himself again that there is nothing to be done just yet (or maybe ever), he slowly backs his car out of the parking space and drives to the other campus, across town, where the university provides him with lodgings. Nothing fancy by any means, but the tiny red brick house screams of old world charm. There is a bedroom and a guest room, a living/dining room and an enormous library filled with rows after rows of well-worn books – his one true solace nowadays. It is a single-story house, as he had requested, because his condition does not allow him to navigate stairs easily, and the English style garden reminds him of the East coast even if it is located in Long Beach. The large wooden terrace is surrounded by a small in-ground swimming pool that is perfect to soothe his battered body after a long day’s work. He even lets Bug, his dog, swim in it even though he’s not supposed to.

*-*-*-*-*

Friday night on Castro Street in San Francisco – it’s hot, steamy, sexy and you never quite know what will happen next. Men in various state of undress walk up and down the street, having a beer, talking, jeering, meeting friends for coffee, drinks, and whatever else.

A tall man walks down the street. He’s by himself. He appears to be more prowling than walking, but the panther is not stalking any prey tonight. As three men tumble out of a bar at the corner of 17th Street, he moves out of their way and enters the Art Deco coffee shop next door, makes his way to a booth at the back and orders coffee. A pretty, young transvestite, a hipster boy of about twenty and a punk-looking girl join him a few minutes later, piling up in the booth, two across from him and the hipster boy at his side. The three youths appear to be talking all over one another, their pleading voices rising in pitch as time passes. “Come on, Jack, you have to come! It’s the biggest marketing effort of the community to improve its image and make ourselves known to the campuses in the area. Chamber of commerce people will be there, boutique, bar and restaurant owners too, and since you own one of the best known bars on Castro, it would be important for you to be there,” says the boy, leaning slightly into Jack Ross’ space, which earns him a cold rebuff.

“Jeremy, I opened the bar barely a year ago, don’t tell me you don’t have a more representative owner to go with you guys! I’m not interested, and that’s final.” Ross’ bar, one street over is an old fashioned gay piano bar, with large leather banquettes, a small dance floor and ferns and plants all over the place. The mixed crowd is a bit older but it offers a welcoming, warm and cosy environment. A small patio with tables gives on the street. In the scant ten months it’s been opened, it’s quickly become a favorite in the neighborhood, in a large measure because of the handsome, salt-and-pepper haired owner with the blue eyes and long lashes who owns it. Tall, strongly-built and quiet, he has men and women, old and young attracted to him like moths to a flame and yet, maybe because his eyes always appear to be searching for something, or someone, he can’t seem to find, he is always alone. Always charming, always welcoming, but always alone. That is until despair, loneliness, alcohol and anger drive him to find quick release and oblivion in the arms of a stranger. Where he never stays, escaping as if the hounds of hell are after him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and feelings as our boys live the end of ep. 3-23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the pain, the longing...
> 
> John and Harold are about to go their separate ways... it's not easy.

New York, 10 months ago

In the debacle that followed Samaritan coming online, Root's voice would be the constant hum in Harold’s and John’s ear, telling them what to do on that last day as they were preparing their hasty departure. The events of the past few days, his getting shot, had made Harold almost catatonic. All he had built, his whole life’s work, his magnum opus now lay at his feet like so much dust, and he could feel John’s dismay and seething anger but could not do anything about it since he, himself, was unable to fully process what it meant for the near future.

Harold kept nervously folding and refolding the flap of the brown envelope which held his new life – he could not bring himself to look inside just yet, but he knew there were keys, money, a passport and credit cards. John had an identical envelope which he had unceremoniously shoved in the pocket of his great coat as he kept shoving items in his “Plan B” bag. Harold could only hold on to Bear’s leash, the one single thing that felt real on this grey afternoon.

And soon they were off, walking side by side, already trying to pretend that all that held them together had ceased to exist. John could feel Harold tiring with each new step, just as Harold could sense John’s breathing becoming more labored, not from exertion but from, he felt, John’s battle with his emotions. They were nearing the corner where they would have to go their separate ways and yet, Harold could still not bring himself to speak or even to look at John who was now slowing down as the dreaded corner was fast approaching. Harold kept his eyes firmly on the ground, willing himself to place one foot in front of the other and not to think… especially not to think, about anything. It was not the first time Harold the chameleon would shed an old skin and enter a new one. He had done it many times before: to bring a cover to life, to save a number, to enter school, to start a conversation with the pretty red-headed artist painting on a New York pier... in fact, for a number of reasons, but none of them had ever felt like this – “this”, which did not mean seeking new adventures but rather felt like running away, like embarking on a scorched earth campaign.

He distantly heard John call to him softly, “Harold…”, “Harold, please,” but kept walking, lifting the collar of his coat over his ears and appearing to retract physically into its shell. “Har…” and he felt John’s hand ghost over his wrist, trying to hold on to him one last time. “Mr. Reese, don’t…” was all he could bring himself to say as he moved his arm away and turned to walk down that fateful side street, without turning to look at John whose despair was writ large in his haunted eyes and his down-turned mouth. John, who wanted to run after Harold but was rooted in place, bag in hand, on the corner of that street from where he, himself, would bifurcate in an opposite direction. Yet again being abandoned, yet again not having been able to say the words which should have been said but never were, those words that just might have made a difference. And so, with an almost superhuman physical effort, he walked down that street. Yet, at some point, he couldn’t help but turn, at the same time as Harold turned too. And in that last glance, they knew it was how this would end, had to end… with eyes that wanted to say so much yet said nothing or said too much…

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens right after Finch and Reese go their separate way... how they get to where they start their new lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and ruminations for our boys as they embark on their new lives

Turning back, Harold made his way down the street, the envelope in his hand becoming heavier with each step. He knew he had to stop and see what was inside, and so he entered the first café he saw. Ordering a chamomile tea (they had no sencha green), he once again upended the contents of the envelope on the table, quickly putting the money in his wallet. He was left with a plane ticket, car keys, what he thought were house keys, a single key with a tag marked “Lockers, 2nd floor, La Guardia” and a passport which he quickly opened to the first page. It was a few years old, with numerous stamps, and bore a photo of him with the name Horatio Fibonacci, born 1948. So he was older… and appeared to have been traveling extensively. He almost smiled when he saw the name… trust Root to tie everything to his interest in science and mathematics. A folded piece of paper fell out of the passport. Marked “Destroy after reading”, it contained background information on Professor Fibonacci, who was being hired from his Ivy League university after having been on loan to the University of Bologna for many years, which explained why so few people on the East Coast knew him extensively. Well, Harold thought, his command of Italian would stand him in good stead. 

But all of this made Harold feel like he had to tear himself limb by limb from New York, this city he loved so much, where he had met Grace, where his and John’s paths had crossed, where he’d unleashed his creation into the world. But now was not the time to reminisce. He had to embark on this new destiny and get to the airport to catch his plane, even if all he wanted to do was to drink his tea, walk back to the library, play ball with Bear while waiting for John to appear after saving the day’s number, carrying bags of steaming Chinese food. But this was not to be. He quickly noted the license plate number of the car that would be waiting for him at LAX, pocketed Bear’s documents (his name had been changed to Bug -- and this saddened Harold anew when he realized that not even his beloved dog had been spared in the aftermath of Samaritan’s birth) and put all the keys on his key chain. As he got out, he tore up and threw away Root’s message and flagged the first taxi he saw. The driver was none too pleased to have the large brown dog in his car, but Harold told him Bear was a service dog so the man quickly relented after receiving a hundred dollar tip. Never had a departure been so fraught with trepidation and heartbreak for Harold. He was not even angry anymore… rather he felt defeated, and so worried about John and the rest of their team.

The locker held a battered leather suitcase which Harold ascertained contained serviceable but well-worn clothes and a few books. Gone were the bespoke suits and Charvet ties he loved so much. He would be starting his new life with worn herringbone jackets, an assortment of khakis, buttoned-up shirts, woolen vests and bow ties… and somehow, this did not even bother him. A leather computer bag was also waiting for him in the locker, it contained a state-of-the-art computer, a burner phone and a folder with diplomas and documents which he planned to read on the plane. He quickly went to the airport’s restroom and changed into his professor mode and quickly got out, throwing everything else he’d been wearing in the nearest garbage can. As he turned, making his way to his boarding gate, his eyes settled on a tall, well-dressed grey-haired man walking a few steps in front of him, and his heart dropped into his shoes. 

“Mr. Reese, wait up! Please, Mr. Reese!” said Harold, almost light-headed with excitement as he walked as quickly as he could to put his hand on the man’s elbow. But as the man turned, looking at him with a dumbfounded expression and with eyes dark as midnight, Harold realized his mistake. The man was not John and Finch felt so crushed that his vision swam and he could barely apologize as he quickly walked away.

“Wait up, sir! Wait, are you OK?” asked the handsome man who had swiftly overtaken Harold. 

“My apologies, I thought you were someone I once knew…” said Harold, barely able to get the words out through his too tight throat as he reached the gate, trying to smile to reassure the man. He quickly picked up his boarding pass and made his way to the back of the plane where he would travel squeezed between a chatty businessman and a grandmother intent on knowing all about him. For someone who had always traveled in his own private jet, or at least in first class, this was a rude awakening.

Taking a deep breath and trying to clear his mind, he told himself that for the time being, this would be his life and he would try to make the best of it, biding his time until he felt he could turn the situation on its head. The last thing he’d done before leaving New York was to deactivate the library’s servers. The Machine was operating on its own and in the very bottom of his soul, he knew – or at least he hoped – that one day it would find a way of contacting him and not the other way around. The last thing he wanted was to endanger his teammates, and in any case, there had been enough lives lost, enough hardships and enough sadness to last him a lifetime. He caught sight of the grey-haired man walking down the aisle in the business section and his heart gave a lurch… but he quickly fell into a dreamless sleep and woke up as the captain was announcing the plane’s descent into LAX.

*-*-*-*-*

John had slumped on the first park bench he found, afraid that his legs would not support him any further. His heart screamed at him to turn back and go after Finch to escape somewhere sunny where they could live their lives drinking rum punch and listening to island music, but his mind knew it was a lost cause. He, who had vowed never to tie his destiny to anyone ever again after Jessica’s death, had done exactly that. Despite his sometimes surly demeanor and his purported aloofness, he had failed and had become so enmeshed in Finch’s life, had come to depend so much on the closeness they had developed, that he now found himself bereft, feeling abandoned on the cusp of starting a new life he never sought nor wanted.

So with a heavy heart, he re-opened the envelope Root had left him. New passport, in the name of Jack Ross, in which Root had shaved five years off his age; the deed to a bar “Ross” had just purchased on Castro Street in San Francisco (“Really?” he said to himself, though you had to hand it to Root, what better way for him to disappear than to travel across the continent and hide in plain sight in a community and a city to which he had no ties, he lied to himself). An apartment lease was in the envelope, along with a wad of money, credit cards, a key to a Central Station locker and a set of car keys. Slowly getting up, he made his way on foot to the nearby train station, picked up the duffel bag Root had left there for him. Three days on a train, he thought to himself: just enough time to try and enter this new life which awaited him. At least he had a room on the train so he would not need to interact with the other passengers.

The three days passed uneventfully – John barely got out of the room, rehashing and reliving the events of the last three years: his meeting Finch, the creation of their team, the loss of Joss, the arrival of Root and Shaw, his growing friendship with Fusco, the numbers they’d saved, those they’d arrested, those they'd lost, the events of the past months with Decima and Samaritan… he barely slept, ate very little, but at last, when he got off the train in San Francisco and spotted the black Jeep Root had arranged to have waiting for him, he felt if not ready, at least less resentful at seeing what life would now throw his way. He rolled back the Jeep’s top, and set out to find his apartment in the early night. The stars were coming out, the bay was magnificent, Chicago was singing on the radio and he could almost, way in the depth of his soul, feel that maybe he could give this a try. And if he couldn’t, there was always the Golden Gate bridge and its straight drop two hundred feet down to the pavement below, with a bellyful of whiskey.

To be continued


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the present, with Professor Fibonacci - I know, I know... how's that for a terse summary ;o)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back in Long Beach, CA, with the Prof.
> 
> As usual, nothing belongs to me
> 
> And comments are loooove!

And so it was that ten months later, Professor Fibonacci had made a life for himself. Oh, it was not, by any means, anything like the life he had had before, with countless millions at his disposal. It was a quiet, unobtrusive life filled with books, research, the fresh youthful faces of his students and the perfumed air of the California hills. He had come to realize that he thoroughly enjoyed teaching his young charges and interacting with them. Weekends would find him working in his garden, taking long walks with Bug, visiting local thrift shops where he would buy here a colorful bow tie, there a pair of butter soft leather gloves. He was especially thrilled with his recent purchase of a cashmere loden green jacket which had set him back all of 25 dollars – "I’m becoming quite the penny-pincher," he thought ruefully. 

He had also discovered the joy of cooking for himself after a lifetime of restaurant takeout. When the university started offering cooking classes, a handful of his students had inveigled him into registering and attending with them. Now, with the course finished, the six of them congregated at his house on Wednesday nights for an evening of cooking and saving the world. 

How strange that life would have changed so much… How weird that after having had to force himself not to think of his former life, it now only came to him unbidden in the dead of night when the cool air brought the mournful cry of the coyotes in the hills. Oh, he dreamed of him of course, and on those occasions, his nights felt more real than his daytime life. In those dreams, they did what he had often times thought of doing but never did for fear of rejection, or simply because of his cowardice, he who was so brave in other areas of his life. He would wake up in a sweat, somewhat uncomfortable at the thought of where those nights took him. And what did it matter if he stole away to the library sometimes, to gaze at the profile he’d created for him when he’d met with Maxine Angelis, his chin resting on his hands, a soft glow in his eyes. That smiling face, so beautiful and carefree, and so unlike the man he knew so well. He would sit there and gaze at it and after a while, ending the connection almost reverently, went about his daily business. Yet, he would never have dared perform his search on his own computer, scared as he was that it might be enough to set in motion events which would endanger those near to his heart.

But enough of that maudlin reminiscing, he thought to himself, getting up from his comfortable chair to start preparing for his Wednesday evening dinner. The students would be arriving soon, and as if on cue, the doorbell rang.

He let everybody in, amazed, as usual, at the energy of the young. His quiet house now resounded with conversations, laughter, the sound of clinking glasses, of food being chopped and an hour later, five of them were sitting down to an Italian feast of antipasto, Caesar salad, penne carbonara and Italian sausage all accompanied by an excellent red wine. Canolis were sitting on the kitchen counter awaiting their pleasure since Professor Fibonacci had never been able to resist a canoli if one was pressed upon him... When all of a sudden, Samuel, Professor Fibonacci’s teaching assistant came through the door and yelled: “Turn on the TV guys, you won’t believe what’s happening in New York!” And as one of the students got up to do just that, Professor Fibonacci’s heart filled with dread.

The scene was awful: fire, smoke, firemen and policemen, the blaring of sirens and the pandemonium that usually accompanies such events. TV crews were trying to find officials or even witnesses to talk to but everybody was running all over the place. “It seems as though a bomb exploded in the basement of the New York library, that’s where most of the smoke and fire are coming from, and just as a conference was finishing,” said one of the TV reporters on site. “Oh, here’s a NYPD spokesperson, let’s see if we can find out anything else.” And as the camera panned, Detective Fusco’s soot-covered face filled the screen and Professor Fibonacci let out a strangled scream that caused his guests to look at him with concern. “Don’t worry Professor, it’s in New York, there’s no danger unless you have family there!” said one of the students, but the man appeared rooted to the spot and he looked as though he’d seen a ghost.

“We got this errr…anonymous tip that errr… something would be happening,” said Detective Fusco, looking somewhat ill-at-ease. “Who was it that called? Didn’t you get their name?”

“No, funny guy, that’s what it usually means when we say ‘anonymous’! Use your brain why don’t you!” said the man, pinning the reporter with his death glare.

“But did it come at the precinct? Or through 911? And who is it that got the call?” the reporter pressed on.

“That’s confidential information – we’ll be giving you more details when we get them; the only thing I can tell you is that it came through the precinct,” said Fusco. He then turned on his heels and started answering another reporter, a young woman who, as she turned also, ended up in profile to the camera. And that’s when Professor Fibonacci stood up, his dish clattering to the floor, losing his footing and almost fainting. Root was holding the microphone… and Fusco looked about ready to die on the spot.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, or rather "Jack Ross"'s point of view

Ten months. Ten months of inhabiting someone else’s skin. Someone who wasn’t him but who, in time, he had come to learn to live with, though he still often forgot to answer when people called “Jack!” to get his attention. He’d had to force his body to acclimate itself to a working rhythm that was somewhat alien to him: working from 8 at night to 3 in the morning, a few hours of sleep, then he would hit Ocean Beach with his long board till about two in the afternoon, would go back home, have a shower, relax and go down to one of the dojos the frequented before returning again to the bar. For a lone wolf like him, running a bar really ran counter to his habits but he had made his peace with it for the time being. And he loved the music. The pianist was a very talented young man who used it as a way to practice for private gigs, and his tastes ran to the great American songbook, which John had learned to appreciate. Seeing how music made people happy as they sat around the piano and laughed, spoke and flirted gave him some measure of happiness.

He had even met people he liked: bar patrons, the community of surfers among whom he was the eldest by far but probably the one who was the least afraid of catching the big ones. He had gone back to practising martial arts: MMAs, aikido, krav maga and sistema, though he did not compete, not wanting to attract undue attention to himself. He had slimmed down and muscled up, and gotten himself quite a tan, which made his blue eyes bluer, and his hair which had turned a somewhat lighter shade of silver gave him quite a striking appearance. He knew he turned heads wherever he went but it mattered very little: the deep ache in his heart still throbbed as much as it ever did, with no end in sight, and there were days he wondered truly how long he would be able to keep it up.

On that morning, he woke up with a feeling that there was something he had to do but did not feel like doing… until it hit him that he had promised Jeremy that he would meet the LGBTQ caravan in San Diego, which meant a five-hour drive from San Francisco. Really, he thought, the things that boy got him into! He had taken him under his wing, as he had a few other youngsters in the neighborhood, and given him a job at the bar. It was barely 6 a.m. and as he got up, he questioned the wisdom of agreeing to do this, but at least he’d been able to get out of riding with the whole group. They were visiting local university and college campuses in a great marketing effort for the city of San Francisco and its attractions, and had made their way, in a week, from San Francisco to San Diego. Today was the start of the San Diego/Long Beach leg, the last one. He’d decided to look up an old army buddy in San Diego for dinner, and then he would spend tomorrow at the San Diego campuses, sleep in the city and make his way, the day after, to the Long Beach campus.

He was finishing packing the Jeep when the old burner phone which had been in the items Root had given to him started ringing. He’d packed it at the bottom of a canvas bag, since he never used it and by the time he was able to retrieve it, it had stopped ringing. “Weird,” he thought to himself, “that thing has never rung before… go figure!” There was no message and no caller ID so he dismissed as a wrong number, but not before wondering briefly about whether the Machine or Root had been trying to reach him. But why would Root do so, since she, too, was in hiding. He smiled at the thought that she might have stolen away with Shaw as he’d seen how close the two women had gotten in their last few days in New York. But why would they have gone away together if he and Finch had had to abandon all and go their separate way? But better not dwell on that since it would kill his mood for the rest of the day.

He’d made his arrangements to meet Bill Standstone, his old army buddy at a restaurant bar in San Diego and after stopping by his hotel, he did just that. The tall, sandy haired man was as handsome as ever as he towered over John. They had been very close while in Afghanistan and had, more than once, become intimate late at night in Bill’s tent since, as his commanding officer, he had larger and more private quarters. It was a “no questions asked” relationship which permitted both men to scratch an itch when the need arose and get some much needed warmth and comfort. John still had a great tenderness for Bill whom he had not seen since his army days. Dinner went on till quite late and as Bill was driving John back to his hotel, one thing led to another and soon they were rutting against each other in the other man’s large and comfortable SUV. Afterwards, they caught their breath and relaxed comfortably, talking in a low voice and reminiscing about the past.

As John was about to leave, Bill pulled him back and said “You look unhappy, John. You’re damned handsome as ever but there’s a sadness about you that I don’t like. Are you sure you’re OK?” 

“Well, you know how it is… civilian life, a change of career, it does take a toll, and, I don’t know, sometimes I’m just fed up… sometimes I can’t seem to find myself… it’s like there’s a visceral part of me missing…” said John, surprised at his own candor.

“Did you leave someone out East when you moved here? Is that what’s making you so despondent?”

“Well, not out East… in fact, I don’t even know where… we just… life separated us…” answered John.

“Don’t tell me that nowadays, with Internet and all that technology around and the people you know in the government and the army, there isn’t a way you can’t find him again?”

“I never said it was a man!” said John, which earned him a disbelieving look and a “Hmphh!” from Bill. “In any case, it’s just not possible,” said John in a voice that was even scratchier than usual.

“Why don’t you spend a few days here then? I wouldn’t mind helping you forget… We could arrange a fishing expedition, do some hiking, and you brought your board? We could make a vacation of it. It’s been a long time since I saw you and I’d like to see where this could go…”

As John was about to answer, the phone in the SUV started ringing and as Bill answered, there came a shrill sound and then some staccato beeps. “Strange,” said Bill, this almost sounded like Morse code…Hey, do you remember your codes, big guy?” he asked John, and the moment passed without any of them thinking any further about it.

After declining Bill’s offer, John went back to his hotel. There were two missed calls from Long Beach on his room phone, which was strange since he did not know anyone there. Then he remembered that he’d told Jeremy at which hotel he’d be staying in San Diego. It was probably him calling to see how the drive had been.

He slept fitfully, his dreams a jumble of military combat with monsters bearing Bill’s face, dystopian universes where Finch was killed in a myriad ways and where John drowned in a sea of fire. He woke up in a panic, drenched in sweat, hardly able to breathe… nothing new, since that was how he woke up most nights. It was also probably why he slept so little and was always so tired. He took a shower, got into a comfortable pair of sweats and decided to go for a run to clear his head. When the concierge saw him leave, he called out to him to be careful out there at five in the morning. Little did he know that John would have no problem defending himself should difficulties arise.

He set a slow pace in his long, looping gait and was happy to see the sun rise above the city. As he passed a bank of public telephones at the entrance of a park, a phone rang and his heart missed a beat. Should he answer? Or pretend he hadn’t heard it? Was the Machine really trying to reach out to him after ten months of silence? Or was it again just a coincidence like yesterday and today? By the time he’d decided to answer, he was half a mile away and did not want to turn back so he kept going. As he was looping around the park to the shore he saw that the light of a lighthouse in the distance appeared to be flickering. It brought back his conversation with Bill and for the fun of it, he tried to see if he could still remember his Morse code, if indeed this flickering was Morse code…

\--- (O) -. (N) --.(G) -… (B) .(E) .-(A) and then it stopped.

“How weird is that,” said John to himself, “it’s almost as if it’s spelling Long Beach…if I were superstitious, I’d think it was a premonition since I’m going there tomorrow!” but he paid no more mind to it and increased his pace as he saw his hotel in the distance and he’d worked up quite an appetite.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter... the plot thickens but things also start to get clearer... hmmmm I really need to start getting better at notes and summaries.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy the chapter... don't forget... comments are looooove!
> 
> And as usual, nothing belongs to me in this, except for my overheated imagination!

After listening to the television for another half-hour, the students left Professor Fibonacci’s house. The man appeared so distraught that they did not want to impose. As soon as they left, he started pacing and trying to gather his thoughts. He needed a way to get to Fusco to see what had happened without pingeing on Samaritan’s radar. He waited a few hours and around two in the morning, he left his house and went downtown where he remembered seeing a bank of public telephones near a coffee shop. How fitting that he should once again be using public telephones, he thought. He remembered Fusco’s home phone number, but he needed to make the call very quick, meaning less than 60 seconds so no tracer could be put on it, and without arousing any suspicion.

_New York, 4 a.m._

“Do you know what time it is? Who’s calling at this godforsaken hour!” bellowed Fusco in his phone when he finally found it under the bed where it had fallen after he got home and had had a shower to remove the soot and grime with which he was covered.

“Detective Fusco, it’s me…”

“Professor? Really? After ten freakin’ months? You never thought to call…”

“Detective, now’s not the time. Please get yourself a burner phone in the next hour and call me from it at this number 619-555-9234 – I have to go now, but hurry!” said Finch, hanging up as soon as he could. His heart was beating a mile a minute but as he was replaying the events of earlier and recalling Fusco’s face when he spoke with the TV people, he was now very afraid…

Fusco stared at the phone dumbfounded... trust the Professor to call him in the middle of the night and send him on a fool's errand... he was tempted to go back to bed but he was too curious... He'd written the phone number on the palm of his hand and hurried to copy it so his sweat would not erase it.

An hour later, Finch was waiting at home for Fusco to call him. Strange, he thought, how he had so quickly reverted to thinking about himself as Harold Finch… he just hoped that in the next few days, he would not have problems hanging on to his cover – now was not the time to slip up. A few minutes after the hour and he was talking with Fusco who told him what he feared – he, Fusco, was now the one with whom the Machine communicated in New York.

“It was very weird, Professor. About a month ago I started getting calls on my cell, but I could barely hear what was being said, it sounded like a computer talking, but it would only give me an address or an intersection but never anything else. I paid no mind to it because it never answered whatever questions I had, but then I realized that soon after getting those calls, something would happen: a murder, a robbery, someone getting mugged right at that same place. I didn’t tell anyone about it because I remembered our last conversation about some kind of a Machine, I was afraid they’d think I was nuts. Mind you, I have to be careful because people are getting antsy - they wonder how it is that I often happen to be around when something is about to happen... I’d normally have mentioned it to you but you guys were all gone. Man I did look for you – you shoulda told me you were leaving!”

“Detective Fusco, if I could have, I would have done so. As it is, Mr. Reese and I, as well as Miss Shaw and Miss Groves, have been in hiding under assumed identities ever since… but let’s not talk too long. Just tell me one thing… why was Miss Groves there? After that, we’ll communicate by mail – it will take forever but it will probably be the only secure way of doing so -  I’ll want you to tell me as much as you remember since our hasty departure.

“Well, frankly Professor, I was as surprised when I got face to face with Cocoa Puffs!”

Harold did not say a word but his “rmmphhh” said a lot…

“Sorry, sorry… she said she’d been in Vermont with Sameen for a few months, and for a few weeks had been feeling antsy so she contacted me, just about the same time as I started getting those messages – frankly I thought she was playing a trick on me. I asked about you guys but she said she couldn’t say anything… Anyway, she’d been in New York for a week doing some of her “special work” she said, when she heard about the explosion. She hightailed it down here and when she saw a freelance reporter with her cameraman, she and Sameen jumped them and Cocoa Puffs took her microphone. She said she knew if she could get close to me, she knew I’d speak to her even though we were on strict orders not to speak to anyone, and that it would attract the big networks’ attention since we weren’t even allowed to talk to them. She was hoping you or Mr. Dark and Dastardly would see her and somehow know something was up…”

“I know Detective, I almost fainted when I did see her!”

“Well, I don’t know how to get to her but I’m sure she’ll get to me now. She said that if I did hear from you, to tell you that “Hope springs eternal” whatever that means, and that “Pandora’s awakening”… ain’t that a jewellery store or somethin’? Anyhow, that’s her message…”

“Thank you Detective. You probably won’t hear about me for a while, but at least now I know that Miss Shaw and Miss Groves are safe, and so are you – do be careful though? And… have you heard anything at all about Mr. Reese? Did Miss Groves mention him? Did she say where he was?”

“Whaaa??? You guys didn’t leave together? Man, he must be going out of his freakin’ mind, the guy couldn’t keep you out of his sight! You haven’t seen him in ten months? You remember what he looked like this winter when he went on his bender and did not set eyes on you for three weeks???”

“No, Detective, I haven’t heard from him… I don’t even know if…” and Harold throat closed up at that point and suddenly he felt very old, and very, very tired… “I have to go now,” he finally added, "but I’ll be in touch. Please don’t call this number again… I will get another burner phone and will send you the number in my letter. Expect in the next few days. Good night Detective.”

“Good night, Pr…” but Lionel realized Harold had already hung up.

 

_University campus, 10 a.m._

The San Francisco Lambda Conference was in full swing on the Long Beach campus. Rainbow banners, colourful balloons and tables with awnings had been installed. Some AIDS support people were on hand, musical groups, restaurants, bars, businesses were represented. The day was warm and sunny and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Jeremy kept hanging around Jack and used any excuse to touch him or interact with him. The boy had it bad, but Jack simply seemed uninterested. He’d been distracted since they’d left San Diego and had been playing with his phone constantly. At some point, a public phone rang and Jeremy thought Jack would jump out of his skin as he ran to answer it. What was with him? Who ran to answer a public phone in a city where he knew no one?

“Two o’clock…” _click_

“Jack's” hand automatically went to where a gun would be if had been wearing one but he quickly realized the illusion... this was not him, and this was not his old life. He was left there, with the phone receptor in his hand, wondering what to do. He looked around, to no avail. The mechanical voice said nothing else, but it was 10 o’clock in the morning. Probably another wrong number, he thought. It couldn't be the Machine - Harold had deactivated it and anyway, he was in California now and nobody supposedly knew where he was. He looked around again, tried to envision two o'clock from where he was standing facing the phone, saw nothing suspicious, and scratching his head, looked around yet again - there were hundreds of people milling about in the parking lot, some singly, some in groups. Nobody in suits, no big goons, only students in tees and shorts and a few older people, but nothing else that caught his eye. He hung up and crossed the street again to get into the commons where the conference was going on.

“Really Jack? You cross the street to answer random phone calls? If you’re that desperate, let me know and I’ll call you,” said Jeremy with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Don’t wiggle your eyebrows at me, said Jack, smiling. It makes you look like a wicked old man.”

“So, what if I’m a wicked young man?” he answered, wiggling his eyebrows even more and crowding Jack as much as he could get away with.

Jack sighed, and grabbing the boy around the neck, mock-strangling him, which made the boy laugh delightedly. “Go mingle,” ordered Jack with a swat on his butt.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully and around 5 p.m., everything was wrapping up. People were making plans for dinner and to go to various bars in the evening. Jack was walking with his group and he’d made it clear that he was not planning on joining any festivities. His phone rang again and he answered quickly.

“Five o’clock…” _click_.

“I know it’s five o’clock" he yelled into the phone.  "I swear I’ll throw that stupid phone in the first garbage can I see…” said Jack as he crossed the street to go to the campus parking lot.

 

_Professor Fibonacci’s office, 3 p.m._

“Come on, Professor, why don’t you come with us, it will be fun! There’s all sorts of games, good music, conferences, handsome young men…”

“Ha! And why would I be interested in handsome young men?” asked the professor as Samuel, his teaching assistant, was gathering the students’ essays in an unwieldy pile.

“Well, I’m interested in handsome young men even if you’re not, Professor,” he answered, laughing at Fibonacci’s flustered countenance.

“Then go, Samuel, I’m much too old for that kind of thing,” said the professor as he looked upon his young assistant over his glasses. “Those things are for the young and nimble, and I’m neither one nor the other.”

“Well, I’m sure you were quite nimble in your youth,” added Samuel, which made the professor laugh despite himself. “You’re quite incorrigible, young man!” but he allowed himself to be pulled across to the commons where the conference was being held, dutifully spoke with handsome young men, tasted delicacies, drank a few sips of locally-produced beers and wines. He would not play the game of pin-the-tail-on-the-…donkey, and would not visit the stall selling sex toys, no matter how much Samuel tried to get him to go in. Two hours later, a tired professor said that the time had come for him to go home, but that Samuel should stay and enjoy himself. The boy wouldn’t hear of it, and after trying to insist that he older man should stay for a while more, he relented.

“OK, OK, well, let me walk you to your car anyway, I don’t want you to have to carry all of these books and essays while holding to Bug and to your cane as well.”

“You’re too good to me Samuel, you spoil me,” said the professor as he placed his hand gently on the boy’s elbow as they both made their way to the parking lot.

As they crossed over, walking across rows of parked cars, Bug started whining and turning, tugging on his leash and almost pulling the professor to the ground. Samuel quickly took the leash from him and the professor looked at Bug sternly and told him to stop and be a good boy. He might as well not have said anything. The poor dog was fairly going crazy, barking and moaning, pulling in another direction entirely.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Samuel, trying with all his might to get Bug to go in the right direction. “He’s never like that usually!”

The professor walked closer to the dog, who looked at him with his tongue out, panting and crying. “Maybe he’s hurt himself?” he said, as he ran both hands on the dog’s flanks which were now heaving. He was almost foaming at the mouth and his master was getting very worried.

“Did he eat anything different than he normally does?” asked Samuel, holding on to him for dear life. Just as he was finally able to pull Bug back a bit, the professor’s phone rang. As he picked up, all he heard was “C – B – A – B – F – E”. He looked at the phone, to see if the screen gave the caller name, but there was nothing on the screen. He hung up but immediately the phone started again, with the same message. He was still looking at the screen when Samuel asked him what it was.

“I’m getting a recorded message with a bunch of letters… but it doesn’t mean anything… CBABFE… does it mean anything to you, Samuel?”

“They sound like school grades!” said Samuel.

The phone rang again, and again the professor heard the same message.

They kept on walking, as Samuel started to say that he had no idea what it could be, when his phone rang. He answered, and all he got was a six-tone tune, as if they were played on a recorder.

“What IS that???” said Samuel as he explained to Professor Fibonacci that he was hearing music in his phone…

“Tones like what?” asked the professor…

“Just six tones, but I’m tone deaf so it doesn’t help much… doesn’t sound like any song I know. Here have a listen…” which left the professor as baffled as his TA. He then hung up, but the phone started again, as did the professor's.

“Oh, hang on! I see Anthony Russo, he’s a music major and he’s in the uni’s choir, if it means anything, he’ll probably know… Hey Anthony, come here a minute!” Samuel yelled across the commons, as he whistled loudly to attract the other boy’s attention. Anthony saw Samuel and ran in his direction.

“Listen to this and tell me what you think…” said Samuel as he handed the phone to Anthony. The boy listened for a while “No, I don’t think it’s part of any piece of music I know… it’s entirely tuneless.   On the scale, I'd say they're C-B-A-B-F-E…that’s the notes it plays but I’ll be damned if I know what it’s from…"

And they both turned as they heard a loud crack. Professor Fibonacci had dropped his phone and his essays to the ground… his face was pasty-white, his eyes wide open. Anthony turned to Samuel and mouthed “It’s like yesterday all over again… What’s wrong with him? Is he losing it?”

“I can hear you Mr. Russo!” said the professor in a stern voice as he started looking around him suspiciously. But his attention was once again brought back to his phone which was laying on the ground. The three men could hear the message again – CBABFE – and that’s when things started going downhill fast. They looked at each other, the three of them tried to bend down and pick up the phone and that’s when Bug finally got loose and tore across the parking lot. The three men were petrified as cars were zipping through the parking lot and the dog was dodging between cars and trucks… and they quickly lost sight of him entirely.

*-*-*-*-*

A few hundred feet away and a few rows of cars over, as Jack Ross was getting into his Jeep after having finally gotten rid of Jeremy who had been intent on sleeping with him and had made his point very clearly, the boy walking away in a huff, he was tackled by a black and brown blur which flattened him to the ground.

_To be continued_


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is - final chapter - the epilogue of this, my take on the continuation of episode 3.23 - to help us live through the hiatus until we learn what happens to our boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can finally put this one to bed.
> 
> Very little, almost no smut... I was too heartbroken and was not inspired to write pron but much love and tenderness and togetherness and all that good stuff.
> 
> Again, I make no money from this and none of it belongs to me except for the workings of my imagination.
> 
> don't forget... we fic writers live on comments and praise! LOL

“Call Security – there’s a big-ass dog attacking a man over there!” yelled a student, and all of a sudden Professor Fibonacci, Samuel and Anthony were moving in the direction from which the commotion was coming.

They followed everybody else, and rounding a black Jeep, stopped in their tracks as three security guards were running, guns drawn, towards the place where Bug could be heard whimpering and moving about, two jeans-clad knees being seen on either side of him.

That’s when Professor Fibonacci turned around somewhat and saw silver hair and two arms wrapped around Bug’s flanks. The man’s head was buried in the dog’s ruff, his stomach appeared to be heaving and he was rocking back and forth, holding on to the dog for dear life.

And then the man lifted his head and the Professor saw him… John…and almost fell to his knees too. He heard whimpering and honestly did not know if it came from Bear, from John or from himself. That’s when one of the security guards yelled “Hey”.

And immediately the imperious voice of Harold Finch came out of meek Professor Fibonacci’s mouth: “Stop right now! Don’t you dare pull a gun on my dog! One more step and I’ll have you dismissed!” Samuel and Anthony could not believe it – where had that strength come from? Professor Fibonacci appeared to have gained a foot in height and he looked both incensed and fearless. The security guards re-holstered their guns but stayed their ground just in case the situation decided to go south.

Harold walked to John and said “Bear, Foei!” and immediately Bear disentangled himself and sat on his haunches. He went down to the ground, ears alert, tail thumping. The Professor then approached John gingerly.

John appeared to have a hard time breathing. He was still kneeling on the ground, on his haunches, breathing very shallowly and looking at Harold as if was seeing an apparition.

“John? Oh, John!” was all Harold could say as he came to stand between John’s outstretched thighs. “How have you been?”

But all John could do was look at Harold, rubbing his hands on his thighs, his eyes filling with tears that would stubbornly not fall.

“Oh, my poor, poor John… I’ve missed you so! Come here!” as Harold opened his hands to John, to at least get him to do something, the other man looking so lost and so forlorn. “Here,” he said as he pulled John up a bit.

And that’s all it took. John, still on his knees but upright, wrapped his arms around Harold’s waist and put his forehead on Harold’s stomach. He did not say anything but Harold could feel him tremble and could hear his labored breathing.

“It’s OK Mr. Reese, it’s all right…” which only served to get John to wrap his arms tighter around Harold.  
“I thought I’d never see you again…” Harold finally heard John saying, the words muffled as they came out against his stomach. “I tried looking for you but I couldn’t and then, I thought I shouldn’t because I was afraid of putting you in danger… Ten long months Harold, ten months…”

“I know, I know,” said Harold. He had one hand around John’s shoulders, the other rubbing gently around the nape of his neck, the soft hair prickling his fingers, his cheek resting on John’s head, not caring one bit who saw, who was gathering around the Jeep. “You’re here now, it’s OK… But you know, we can’t… You shouldn’t… It’s too d..”

“Harold, no! Please! You can’t send me away… not now that I’ve found you… I won’t survive… as it is I’m barely living, I’m so lonely, it’s like I’m just going through the motions most days… I miss Bear, I miss you… please…” Harold could feel John’s hands gripping his back, and his hip was starting to become very painful.

“John, please, listen to me…” as he grimaced in pain, John lifting his head to look at him and realizing what was happening.

“’m sorry, Harold,” as he loosened his grip. “Are you still angry? I know I should have gone with you, but you seemed to intent on going your own way…You wouldn’t even look at me when we left… I should have tried harder, I should have stolen a car and taken you and Bear and maybe we could have…”

“John, did you think, all this time, that I did not want to go with you? It almost killed me to leave you… but I knew if I looked at you, I wouldn’t be able to leave and that I would endanger you… For months I could barely sleep at night wondering where you were… But we’re attracting a lot of attention right now, and that’s the last thing we want to do. Please, please get up. Here’s what you’ll do. Take Bear with you. Give me fifteen minutes leeway and then go to the other campus – it’s down the highway here as you turn left, about twenty minutes, you’ll see the sign. I’ll advise security that an old friend is visiting me and bringing me my dog. They’ll direct you to my lodgings on campus and we’ll be able to talk and maybe we can spend some time together, it's the end of the semester and I am not teaching this summer. What name did Miss Groves give you? So I can tell the guards?”

John stood up slowly, still keeping close to Harold as if he did not want him out of his sight for one second. “Jack Ross,” he said, taking Bear’s leash and getting the dog to go in the Jeep.

“I’ll see you soon,” said Professor Fibonacci, as he turned to go to his car, his hand gently ghosting against John's stomach. “It’s OK people, the show is over, as you were, there’s nothing more to see!” he added, with still a bit of Finch’s steel in his voice but with so much tenderness in his eyes that his students were almost overwhelmed by it.

John sat at the wheel, he wasn’t crying… but tears wouldn’t stop rolling down his cheeks as he ran his hands on his face to stop them… but he wasn’t crying… he was fresh out of tears… he wasn’t crying!

“You’re letting that guy take Bug away, Professor?” asked Samuel, almost tempted to go and retrieve the animal.  
“Yes, Samuel, Mr. Ross is an old friend of mine, he’ll bring Bug to my place.”

“Ha, an old friend indeed,” said the student. “I see now why you’re not attracted to handsome YOUNG men…”

“Thank you Mr. Richmond, that will be all!” said the professor, but with a sweet smile that said much more than he could have said with mere words. He got into his car, waved to the students and made his way home feeling lighter than he had since he’d left New York… and if he was honest, for months since before that.

Arriving at the West-end campus, he advised security, got home, scurried to tidy up a bit, and sat in his wing back chair to await his cherished visitor.

And waited. And waited…

He had been expecting John in about thirty minutes, and here it was, more than an hour later, and John still hadn’t arrived. He kept going up to check through the window, sitting back down only to get up again a few minutes later. What could be taking this long? Could he have decided not to come? Had he been afraid to put Harold in danger and decided to not show up? What about Bear? Had the campus police detained him, somehow? Harold made a few calls but no, nobody had seen John, or rather Jack Ross.

Finally, after two hours of waiting, the doorbell rang. Harold walked to the door and opened it to find John and Bear on the threshold. At first, they were both tongue-tied, could only look at each other, rooted on the spot. And then John started: “I’m sorry, Harold,” he said contritely, “there was an accident on the highway and we got stuck between two exits… it took forever. I thought we’d never get here!”

“It’s OK, Mr. Reese, I was just concerned that maybe you’d changed your mind…” said Harold with a small smile to take away the sting from his words.

“Still don’t trust me Harold, after all this time? Haven’t we suffered enough? Isn’t time we started trusting each other? What will it take?” said John, his voice wavering somehow, his sad eyes boring holes through Harold’s own eyes.

“Oh, John, I didn’t mean it like that… I was just so worried that the words came out without me thinking any further. I’ve missed you so, I was so concerned.”

They were facing each other, the door still opened and it was Bear, as he decided to come in the house, who made them realize that the door was wide open. “Come in, come in, John,” said Harold as he brushed his fingertips lightly over John’s forearm.

“I have to say that the California sun agrees with you!” said Harold, the tips of his ears getting a bit pink. “You’re handsomer than ever, even dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt,” he added.

A bashful John lowered his head and closed his eyes, his long lashes making shadows on his lovely cheekbones, a hand going up to his mouth to hide the smile that threatened to break out. Harold’s fingers had brought goose bumps at the back of his neck that reverberated all the way down to his groin. 

“I have missed you so very terribly, Mr. Reese,” said Harold, his voice almost breaking, his hand wrapping around John’s bicep, feeling the play of muscle and the softness of his skin.

“Me too, Harold,” said John, his hand going up to Harold’s face, his thumb gently caressing his cheek. “I was afraid I’d never see you again,” John bent his head down, his forehead touching Harold’s, but still too afraid to make the first move, the move he had wanted to make a long time ago, in another life, when he felt he had all the time in the world even though his life was daily in danger. Now, in a life that was supposedly far removed from the danger of the numbers, the Machine and everything that went along with that, he was deathly afraid of making that first move, of being rejected, of maybe discovering that Harold was not on the same page, that he was happy in this new life in which John had no role. 

But Harold came through like a champion, sensing that John was hesitating. He had waited so long, had been afraid that John would think he was imposing upon his employee, and he was so scared that John would disappear in his other life that he told himself that the time was finally ripe… it was now or never, and so he angled his head just right and captured John’s lips with his own in a kiss that was both chaste, tender and so very very hot because it contained all the longing he’d kept hidden for so long.

Harold wrapped both hands around John’s neck and pulled him towards him, and John went with it while his arms took hold of Harold. His Harold, who did not smell of fancy leather, expensive soap and thousand dollar cologne anymore, but who smelled of books, warm sun and the lavender that John had seen growing in large pots by the door.

When Harold opened his mouth and sent his tongue invading John’s mouth in the most tender manner, John couldn’t hold back a soft groan that made Harold move even closer to him. John maneuvered them slowly towards the large three-seater sofa in front of the fireplace, stopping to place a pillow under Harold’s neck. They kept on nibbling on each other’s lips, content with that for the time being, not wanting more than this gentle but insisting low hum of sexual tension between them. Both were intent on taking it slowly, to see where it would take them. Especially not to spook the other. Harold knew John had a long history of sexual entanglements with men and he trusted him to take the lead in that since Harold’s sexual drive had always been much lower. Even as a young man he had never been overly sexual and in his relationship with Grace, he had always been happy to let her initiate their planned intimacy. He did not remember ever being as aroused as he was now, and he felt somehow overwhelmed with the whole thing. 

For the time being, it was enough for him to have found John again and to have him in his arms. The rest would follow, he was sure of that, and in time, they would talk and Harold would explain to John how he felt the Machine was slowly coming back to life with the help of Miss Groves and with Detective Fusco, who was now getting numbers directly from the Machine. And John would talk to Harold about how he’d been receiving strange messages which suspiciously had sounded like the Machine and which had been trying to direct him, even though he couldn’t see what the Machine wanted since every time he looked in the direction it gave him, there never was anything to see. And they would eventually realize that the letters Harold had been receiving C-B-A-B-F-E, the music notes Samuel had received while he was with Professor Fibonacci and the numbers on the license plate of John’s Jeep, 3-2-1-2-6-5, were all one and the same. And they would start, slowly and very gingerly, to make arrangements to reconnect with their old team and await the reawakening of the Machine which, like a phoenix, would be brought back to life from the ashes of its destruction.

But for the time being, John’s long body was lovingly wrapped around Harold, his hands slowly undoing the buttons on Harold’s shirt and peppering thousands of kisses on his jaw line as Harold was trying to lift John’s t-shirt off while caressing the vast expanse of tanned skin. Their slow buzz was carrying them to ever higher reaches, erections rubbing achingly against one another, finally together after so much heartache and so much loneliness. John was finally, once again, home and Harold’s heart was full to bursting. It would be a long night. A night of discoveries, of tenderness, of love, of passion, of hands searching, bodies heaving, of shared ecstasy that would find them, the following morning, still intertwined, sated and tired, the colorful throw which normally rested on the back of the sofa having been pulled in to cover them against the cool of the night. One of many such mornings they would share after many nights of love, before John would go back to San Francisco to sell the bar and buy a restaurant-café near the campus until other adventures changed their lives yet again.


End file.
